When I got on board the steamer at Calais I saw Lewis Day, who writes books about decoration, and began to talk with him. Also I saw A. B., Editor of the _X.Y.Z. Review_. I met him some years ago at Phipson Beale’s, but we do not speak. Recently I wanted him to let me write an article in his review and he would not, so I was spiteful and, when I saw him come on board, said to Day: “I see we are to have the Editor of the _X.Y.Z._ on board.” “Yes,” said Day. “He’s an owl,” said I sententiously. “I wonder,” said Day, “how he got the editorship of his review?” “Oh,” said I, “I suppose he married some one.” On this the conversation dropped, and we parted. Later on we met again and Day said: “Do you know who that lady was—the one standing at your elbow when we were talking just now?” “No,” said I. “That,” he replied, “was Mrs. A. B.” And it was so. Snapshotting a Bishop I must some day write about how I hunted the late Bishop of Carlisle with my camera, hoping to shoot him when he was sea-sick crossing from Calais to Dover, and how St. Somebody protected him and said I might shoot him when he was well, but not when he was sea-sick. I should like to do it in the manner of the _Odyssey_: . . . And the steward went round and laid them all on the sofas and benches and he set a beautiful basin by each, variegated and adorned with flowers, but it contained no water for washing the hands, and Neptune sent great waves that washed over the eyelet-holes of the cabin. But when it was now the middle of the passage and a great roaring arose as of beasts in the Zoological Gardens, and they promised hecatombs to Neptune if he would still the raging of the waves . . . At any rate I shot him and have him in my snap-shot book, but he was not sea-sick. [1892.] Homer and the Basins When I returned from Calais last December, after spending Christmas at Boulogne according to my custom, the sea was rough as I crossed to Dover and, having a cold upon me, I went down into the second-class cabin, cleared the railway books off one of the tables, spread out my papers and continued my translation, or rather analysis, of the _Iliad_. Several people of all ages and sexes were on the sofas and they soon began to be sea-sick. There was no steward, so I got them each a basin and placed it for them as well as I could; then I sat down again at my table in the middle and went on with my translation while they were sick all round me. I had to get the _Iliad_ well into my head before I began my lecture on _The Humour of Homer_ and I could not afford to throw away a couple of hours, but I doubt whether Homer was ever before translated under such circumstances. [1892.] The Channel Passage